Home Before Dark (11 page)

Sam rode the escalator to the station’s upper level, her laptop
in a shopping bag securely wedged between her ankles. Rising
up through the atrium, she scanned the crowded concourse
below, feeling as exposed as if she’d walked out of the washroom
naked. A modern concrete and glass structure, the
Westbahnhof boasts huge triple-storey windows that let in
panoramic views of the city. She realised she could also be
seen from the street.
He’s here somewhere, she thought, watching.
Ten minutes before the train was due to leave, she made
her way back to the entrance to Track 14, where she’d left
the Rivers with a porter to handle the baggage and help them
find their sleepers.
The blue and white liveried engine of the EuroNight
express was standing at the buffers. It gave out a low steady
hum as Sam set off on the long hike down the platform. The
sleeping-car section of the train curved out beyond the protection
of the station roof into the thickening dusk. She measured
her progress by the hazy pools of light that fell at intervals
from overhead lamps.
Small groups hovered around the last open doors of the
ordinary carriages; the platform ahead, except for one or two
wagons-lits attendants, was almost deserted. She heard someone
moving up fast behind her and had to fight the urge to
look over her shoulder.
The running steps fell back and halted. Another train door
slammed.
Her heart thumped against her rib cage. If he let her leave
Vienna, she told herself, she would be safe. She thought about
Sophie and the way it must have felt when she realised there
was no escape.
She wished . . . wished the hell now she’d never got in
touch with the girl’s father, never got involved. At the sight
of a payphone further along the platform, Sam hesitated her
instinct was not to call Ed Lister, not to trust her
cell – then she reached for her address book.
She wasn’t sure what made her change her mind.
She just knew she had to tell someone, and Ed was the only
person in the world who would believe her story.

The stilted first notes of’Dreaming’ from Robert Schumann’s Kinderszenen filled the white audition room. I stood by the
window looking out over the futuristic, slightly run-down
Cite de la Musique campus, hands behind my back.
'Trop fort, trop fort, pardon.’ Lucas Norbet reached for the
dials of the stereo system, and lowered the volume.
'She’s never had any formal tuition,’ I offered, sounding
almost apologetic. 'You can tell . . . she lacks confidence.
Nerves. I’m sure you take all that into account.’
'But the opening bars should be slow, Monsieur Lister . . .
lentosimo!’
He gave me a reassuring smile, then scribbled something
in a notebook. Late fifties, blue grapey eyes, a child’s flawless
skin, he looked with his trademark shock of snow-white hair
exactly like a music professor should. As the Schumann
began to flow, he leant back in his chair and stared at the
ceiling.
For the next half-hour Lucas went through the repertoire,
which Jelena had reluctantly let me download from her files.
If I’d told her I was planning to share them with the tutor
for admissions at the Conservatoire National Superieur de
Musique in Paris, she would almost certainly have refused.
But her ambition, her dream, was to study here. I just wanted
to open a few doors.
There was a black grand piano in a corner and I imagined
Jelena sitting at it, head tilted to one side, long slim-fingered
hands moving over the keys. As we listened to her rendition
of Scott Joplin’s 'Fig Leaf Rag’, a huge grin slowly spread
across Lucas’s face. Somehow hearing her play in the presence
of another brought her to life, and I felt my heart swell at
his undisguised pleasure.
The last piece on the CD was Beethoven’s 'Bagatelle in A
Minor’, “Fur Elise’ and it was obvious from Lucas’s expression
that he’d had to sit through this particular 'favourite’ once
too often. A few bars in he paused the track.
'May I ask, Monsieur Lister, what age is your goddaughter?’
'She’ll
be twenty-six in September.’
'Ah, I feared as much.’ He gave a deep theatrical sigh. 'We
don’t take anyone for piano who’s over twenty-two at the
start of the school year. Some of the less popular instruments
yes, but piano is permanently oversubscribed.’
'I thought I explained,’ I said evenly, 'that she was . . .
grown-up.’
Lucas shook his head. I couldn’t tell whether we’d hit a
genuine snag, or if this was a tactical move. The melee of
voices and instruments from the practice rooms, a kind of
musical Babel, seemed to grow louder and more dazzlingly
virtuoso.
'If she has her
DFS
or equivalent diploma, we do an
“improvement” course for mature students up to the age of
thirty.’
'She has no qualifications.’
He frowned. 'You know what puzzles me? In New York,
you’ve the Juilliard, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, many
other excellent schools. She could get a scholarship. Why
does she want to come to Paris?’
I wasn’t sure I knew the answer, but I elaborated on the
little Jelly had told me about her childhood – growing up
poor on Martinique, father never around, being taught to
play piano by a grandmother she adored, who encouraged
her dream of studying at the best school in the world . . .
and so on.
'You say she wants to be a music teacher?’
'She’s young enough to be idealistic’
'On sait jamais,’ he said, looking at me. 'I heard something
there, particularly with the Scott Joplin. She could go further.’
'I would like to help make that possible.’
Lucas got up and removed the CD from the stereo; taking
his time, he put it back carefully in its case, then placed it
on the desk between us.
'We do, occasionally,’ he said at last, 'admit an exceptional
student who doesn’t fit all the admissions criteria. Usually
they are endowed by an institution.’
He kept his gaze on me while he spoke. I’d made Lucas
aware of the foundation Laura and I had recently set up in
Sophie’s memory to give talented but poor artists and musicians
the opportunity to develop their skills. I’d also explained
to him that there was no connection between the charity and
my wish to enable Jelena to fulfil her ambitions – he understood
this to be a private matter.
'In your god-daughter’s case . . .’
I can’t remember exactly how he put it. The French are
nast masters at this kind of delicate manoeuvre. A donation
to the school’s endowment fund, I was given to understand,
would secure my 'god-daughter’ an interview and formal
audition, if not an automatic place. We had a deal, though I
don’t believe we could have come to an understanding if the
girl hadn’t had genuine talent.
'The instrumental test before a jury can be gruelling,’ he
said, I imagine just to cover himself.
I wrote out the cheque (the zeros ran a fair way to the
east) and handed it over, stressing the importance of confidentiality
I told Lucas that nobody must know, particularly
the girl herself, that she had a benefactor. I asked him, unwisely
perhaps, if I could rely on his discretion.
He glanced down and I saw his eyes widen.
'One small detail, Monsieur Lister.’ Lucas touched my
shoulder as we stood waiting for the lift. 'How are we to make
contact with your god-daughter?’ He gave an embarrassed
smile. 'I don’t know . . . her name.’
That made two of us.
'She’ll contact you,’ I answered, and the doors slid open.

After leaving the Cite de la Musique, speeding along the
Avenue Jean-Jaures in a taxi, I dialled home then almost at
once rang off – I’d forgotten it was an hour earlier there and
Laura, who likes to keep to her routines, would be out walking
Jura, Sophie’s old black Lab. I pictured them on the path she
always takes up onto the downs behind Greenside.
This was Tuesday, three days after George’s party.
In Paris on business – Beauly-Lister has an office in
St-Germain where I usually spend a day or two every week – I’d flown over that morning to look at a disused warehouse
in the once unfashionable part of town east of the Marais.
The views from the upper floors of the warehouse turned
out to be disappointing. The agent tried to convince me
that overlooking the backs of the railway yards at Bercy or
being able to read the number-plates of cars on the Boulevard
Peripherique were selling points. I just thanked her and
left.
The taxi dropped me off in Montmartre around seven.
With time to kill, I went for a stroll in the quiet streets to
the north of Sacre-Coeur. The sky had cleared after the rain
and the air felt fresh and smelled of lavender and wood
smoke.
I was in a reasonable mood, pleased with the way the meeting
with Lucas had gone. In a few hours, Jelly was due back
in New York and I was looking forward to 'seeing’ her again – so much so I could hardly think of anything else. There
was no question of my telling her the good news. But then
I really didn’t want anything out of this. Just knowing I’d put
the wheels in motion was enough.
As I walked down the steeply stepped rue Utrillo, enjoying
framed glimpses of the city spread out below, I remembered
a corner cafe that had a genuinely local feel and decided to
stop for a bite to eat. I sat down at an outdoor table and
ordered a pression and the assiette de charcuterie with an endive
salad. I wanted something light and simple, and to get it over
with.
After I’d finished, I lit a cigarette and tried Greenside again.
I let the phone ring half a dozen times – it was now eight
thirty, Laura was either taking a bath or had gone out to
dinner. I was about to hang up, when I got a call-waiting
signal.
I clicked over. 'Ed here.’
'There are some things you need to know.’
'Who is this?’
'I don’t have much time.’
I felt my chest tighten.
'Hold on.’ I had never heard Sam Metcalf’s voice before.
There had been no response to the message I left on her
mobile, no reply to my last e-mail. Frankly, I’d given up
hope of her getting in touch again, but I knew at once it
was her.
'Please, don’t put me on hold.’
'Only for a second,’ I said calmly, 'I’m on the other line.
Let me just get rid of this call.’
'No, there isn’t time . . . listen.’

Rucksack slung over one shoulder, Ward stepped up onto the
night express and walked along inside the carriages, bending
his head now and then to look out through the windows onto
the platform.
He needed to be sure Sam was on board when the train
started moving.
He found his couchette in the fourth carriage, glanced in
the compartment he had no intention of using, and kept
going until he’d almost reached the sleeper section. He could
see her now, standing more or less opposite talking on a
payphone. In the corridor, he took up position just inside an
open carriage door so that he could jump off the train if at
the last moment she chose to let it leave without her.
He could tell from her body language that she was still
undecided.

Sam glanced up at the station clock. She had three and a
half minutes to make Ed Lister understand. She spoke low
and fast.
'I’m sorry about Florence. It wasn’t safe to meet. I had a
phone-call warning me that if I talked to anyone … he was
watching.’
'Who was?’
'The man who killed your daughter.’
'I see. So why are you talking to me now?’ Ed sounded
cautious, almost suspicious. 'What made you decide to change
your mind?’
'I know I’m being followed.’
There was a silence. 'Where are you?’
'For the next two minutes, Vienna. Then I’ll be on a train,
I’m getting the overnight express to Paris. Remember I told
you Sophie liked to come round and use my laptop? I think
there may be some other stuff on the hard drive that could
help the police find her killer … I want you to have it.’
'How did you know I was in Paris?’
'I didn’t. . .’ Sam was taken aback, but the coincidence of
his being there felt like a sign her luck was turning. 'It’s a
miracle, okay? My lucky day, Ed. What the bejesus does it
matter?’
'All right, I’ll meet you. Tomorrow morning when?’
'Nine forty-eight, Gare de 1’Est. I’ll try to e-mail you from
the train . . . just in case. I have photos somebody needs to
see. I think he may be in a couple of them. It’s how I found
out he’s been following me.’
'If you’re worried,’ Ed said, 'make yourself known to the
guard. Did you book a sleeper or couchette?’
'Sleeper. First class,’ she shot back, feeling the buzz of
imminent departure.
'Lock the door. Try to stay around people.’
'I’m travelling with friends. I’ll be okay. My train’s about
to leave.’
'Sam, wait. You sent me the address of a website. I can’t
get access without the username and password.’
'Tomorrow,’ she said. 'Just please, please be there.’
“I’ll be there . . .’ She cut him off.
With only a minute left, Sam picked up the shopping bag
and started across the platform, then hesitated. If she was
right, he was already on board. What if she happened to miss
the train? She could leave the laptop in the phone booth and
then walk away, just get the hell out of here. There was a
chance he wasn’t watching. And if he was, she felt sure it
was the Toshiba he really wanted.
Along the track she could see Fern Rivers waving at her
from the only open door on the train. She was shouting something,
but her voice didn’t carry over the rising din of the
engine.
Sam watched as the uniformed guard, in a slow deliberate
gesture, as if he were moving underwater, put the whistle to
his lips.
She felt a light touch on her shoulder and spun around.
'Time to go, kid.’ Balfe was there, smiling at her.

17

It was almost eight-thirty when I got back to the Place Vendome.
I walked through the lobby of the Ritz Hotel wearing an
expression I like to think makes me invisible. The concierge
on duty tried to catch my eye, but I kept going and took the
lift up to the third floor. I was in a hurry to get to my laptop.
The call from Sam Metcalf had left me wishing I’d made
more effort to find her before now.
I always stay at the Ritz when I’m in Paris. It would cost
less to rent a flat near my office in St-Germain, but I have
an arrangement with the hotel that suits me better. Hemingway
once wrote that the only reason for not staying at the
Paris Ritz is if you can’t afford it. I doubt he would recognise
the joint since it was struck by the Al Fayed wand. The
opulence and vulgarity that stalk the hushed mirrored halls
are overpowering, but I hardly notice any more. I like grand
hotels. It’s an indulgence, but one that pays dividends.
I poured myself a stiff whisky and sat down at the desk.
The e-mail from Sam Metcalf was waiting in my inbox a
single line directing me to her webpage. Under a photo of
a pretty, plumpish woman in gold-rimmed glasses, blue-eyed
with a lot of dark curly hair, there were the usual deliberately
vague biographical details, and a link to an image file of 'My
Vacation’ snaps.
I counted eleven photographs in all, mostly crowded
street scenes, taken in different locations. The shots were
arranged serially by date and time under the headings of
towns. Some featured a dank-looking, middle-aged couple
(Americans, going by their clothes). In two images, using
a drawing tool, Sam had ringed an indistinct figure in the
background. In a third, a shot of a cobbled pedestrian street,
she had put a question mark over a blurred shadow in a
doorway.
Seeking more definition, I imported the snapshots she’d
marked to Adobe Photoshop and played around with the
images. There was very little to work with: nothing resembling
a face (the head always turned away), no identifying
features – it was a man, but height, skin colour, hair, clothing:
all were indeterminate.The only possible connection I could
see was that in one, maybe two photos, the highlighted figure
was carrying what looked like a black rucksack or shoulder
bag.
I took a sip of Scotch and leant back, reflecting on how
little I actually knew about Sam Metcalf. On the phone, her
voice had a built-in quaver that I found worrying – it sounded
like hysteria was never far below the surface. I didn’t doubt
her explanation for breaking off contact in Florence. If she
had been warned not to talk by Sophie’s killer, it was good
enough reason to feel afraid. But paranoia has a habit of
feeding on itself. If these photos were meant to be evidence
that he was now shadowing her through Italy, it wasn’t overwhelming.
Reaching
for the mouse, I clicked on Sam’s photo to enlarge
the image, so I could study her face. Hardly a reliable guide,
but all that was available to me. I recognised a serious person,
sensitive, ardent, smart . . . she didn’t look crazy.
Yet I wouldn’t have bet on Sam Metcalf not turning out
to be a flake, one of those lost souls who hunger for attention,
thrive on drama for its own sake.